


What is an anarchist?

by wakethewinds



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Communism, Gen, Leftism, Politics, just kind of a ramble ngl, substance use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakethewinds/pseuds/wakethewinds
Summary: I was drunk and wrote this.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	What is an anarchist?

Ancom wept. Que felt the world upon quis shoulders, que saw everything. Each day, que watched the rise of fascism, que watched the world literally burn with wildfires, que saw hate, que saw fear becoming hate, que saw confusion becoming hate, que saw anger becoming hate. Each day que saw more. Disease, climate, politics, war, violence, death. That was all que ever saw. There was beauty still in the world, art so powerful that it moved quem to tears. People still smiled at quem, people made quem feel accepted, used quis pronouns, told quem that quis work inspired them; que still felt loved by quis comrades. But still, everywhere, disease, climate, politics, war, violence. Everywhere, death. That weight, even shared by quis comrades, felt crushing.

Ancom tried quis best to be strong. Que worked as much as que could, tripping to expand quis mind, drinking to feel the feelings que tried not to feel, smoking weed to escape the pain when it became too much, reading theory, studying history, providing support for quis comrades, trying to keep quemself from falling again into depression, laying in bed for hours when depression found quim again even though that was the last thing que wanted to do, fighting the constant battle against dysphoria, and whenever quis life wasn't absorbed by all those things que would try to work out. Ancom really did everything que could to be strong. Still, it was barely enough. Disease, climate, politics, war, violence, death. Injustice, corruption, hate, fear. Death. Everywhere.

Time.

Que realized that's what it came down to. Time. There's only so much time to act before it's too late, before something horrible happens, before too many people are killed over greed and hate, before the world is damaged beyond repair, before innocent creatures that had nothing to say about the affairs of humans would be destroyed forever, before que quemself met an early grave or clung on for many long years. Each moment the clock ticked away. Each second things felt worse. Que was acutely aware of all the suffering around quim. The world's suffering became quis own and it took all quis strength to stand up to the pressure. But it wore quem away. Que was strong, but que couldn't stand being strong at all times. Que had more to quimself than being an anarchist, there was more that que could do. Que wanted to read novels, write poems, paint beautiful pictures. But que couldn't. Que couldn't turn away from the children dying in mica mines for the sake of luxury cosmetics, from quis trans comrades killing themselves because of pointless hate, from quis parents too exhausted to talk to quem after working all day, from quis friends scared of getting sick because they can't afford to get treatment.

Que was selfish because que took all that pain on quemself. Que was selfish because que wanted to end that pain. Que was selfish because que dreamed of a world of love, que wanted to love everyone, que wanted everyone to be ok. Que wanted everyone to be able to be happy. Que wanted everyone to grow in the direction they wanted to grow. Que wanted everyone to walk their own path. Que wanted everyone to survive. Que wanted everyone to thrive because it hurt quem when they couldn't

Que was probably the most selfish person who ever lived.

Ancom knew que wasn't depressed. Que knew very well what it felt like to be depressed and this wasn't it. Everything que felt came from outside rather than inside, and in a sense that was better. That let que get mad. Because que wasn't depressed, que could say "Fuck capitalists! Fuck Nazis! Fuck racists! Fuck transphobes! Fuck everyone who wants me and my friends dead! I'll take them all on with my own fucking fists! I'll fucking fight them until I can't fight anymore!" Que had the luxury to get angry. Que was still strong enough to feed the fire rather than let it burn out. But some days that fire felt weak.

Que wanted to die in the revolution.

Maybe que didn't want to die. Que would like to live in the future que'd occasionally get a glimpse of while reading theory or daydreaming or conversing with quis comrades. But que knew that even if the most drastic action was taken, que would be fighting for the the next generations. Que felt that his own fate was sealed. Que would live and die in late capitalism and there was nothing que could do about it other than fight for the people who would live after que died. Sometimes que found that beautiful. Sometimes que found that suffocating.

Que wanted to fallorun.

Que wasn't sure if death was worth it. Maybe instead que would run away with quis boyfriend and girlfriend and found sibling and build a family in Norway or some shit where things aren't quite so bad and all of them would live together and forget about everything and go back to sleep. Maybe que would pool quis money with some comrades and buy a piece of land way out in the middle of nowhere in Oregon and build a commune and live off the land. Quis praxis would be meditation and trying to bring as much love into this world as que could; to help quis friends raise their kids and to trip enough shrooms to become the next Buddha. But that would still be escaping. Even if que lived by quis principles and tried quis best to do anarchy with quis comrades, que wouldn't be making a real change. It would still be a fallorun.

Maybe que could write a manifesto, but what difference would that make? Maybe que could start a local mutual support group, but what difference would that make? Maybe que could talk a comrade out of suicide, but what difference would that make? Maybe que could keep quemself alive, but what difference would that make?

Disease, climate, politics, war, violence, suffering, hate, misery, time, pain.

Death.

Death. Always death. No matter what, death. It's always death in the end.

Ancom knew what death was, que had taken more than enough mushrooms to come to terms with quemself dying, with the world dying. Que knew that the universe was bigger than anything that que could ever imagine, that the existence of humanity as a whole was so tiny that it means nothing in the grand scheme of everything. Que saw the unspeakable blinding beauty in that. But that just made the suffering que saw seem more unnecessary and absurd and pointless.

Que was so selfish. Que had so many ambitions, so many dreams, so much hope. Que constantly fought so hard to stay angry. Every single breath que took was a revolution. Que tried so, so fucking hard. Que tried quis absolute best. Que always, constantly tried quis best. Que never stopped trying.

Even though every breath que took was a revolution, one person can't revolt by themselves.

Que needed help, que needed someone to reach out to quem. Que waited for something to happen while que became stronger. Que waited for a general strike or a march on DC or any kind of organization at all. Que waited for something to do, some kind of resistance against the war, the suffering, the hate, the misery, the pain, everything. Nothing substantial happened. Nothing other than more people biding their time and trying desperately to stay alive.

Que was strong. Que was the revolution. But que was only one person, and que was alone. Que fought against everything to stay mad, to feed quis fire, to keep that spark of Anarchy alive inside of quis soul.

But sometimes that spark burned dull and cold.

Que feared that someday that spark would go out all together.

If that would happen que would no longer be quemself. Que would have no idea what que would be anymore. If que didn't have that spark, no matter how faint and cold, que didn't know what que would have left.

Que feared it'd be the end.

Que didn't want it to end.


End file.
